The sanguine woman is quite bearable, so long as she is not a fool.
The Choleric Man. He is bilious and sports a sallow complexion. His nose is somewhat crooked, and his eyes circle in their sockets like hungry wolves in cramped cages. He is irritable. Bitten by a flea or pricked by a needle, he is ready to blow the world to kingdom come. Every time he speaks it is with a spray of spittle, and he bares teeth that are either brown or very white. He is convinced that it is always “cold as hell” in winter and “hot as hell” in summer. He hires and fires cooks every week. When he dines, he complains that everything is either overcooked or too salty. Most choleric men are bachelors, but if they do marry they keep their wives under lock and key. He is jealous as the devil. He has no sense of humor, and everything annoys him. He only reads newspapers so he can swear at journalists—when still in his mother’s womb, he was already convinced that all newspapers lie. As a husband or friend he is unbearable; as a subordinate, obsequious; as a boss, insufferable and in everyone’s way. More often than not, unfortunately, he is a pedagogue, teaching mathematics and ancient Greek. I do not advocate sleeping in the same room with him, as he will cough and spit all night and swear loudly at the fleas. If he hears a hen cackling or a cock crowing in the middle of the night he will clear his throat, and, in a rasping voice, call for his servant to climb onto the roof, seize the creature, and wring its damned neck. He dies of a lung or liver ailment.
The choleric woman is a devil in a dress, a crocodile.
The Phlegmatic Man. A most agreeable individual (needless to say I am not referring to British phlegmatics, but Russian ones). He is quite unremarkable in appearance, and somewhat ungainly. He is always serious, because he is too lazy to laugh. He will eat anything and at any time. He does not drink because he is afraid of fits, and sleeps twenty hours a day. He sits on every possible committee and is to be found at every meeting and emergency session but is at a loss about what is going on, and dozes off without a twinge of conscience, patiently waiting for the meeting to end. At the age of thirty, with the assistance of uncles and aunts, he marries. He is the most suitable person for marriage: he agrees with everything, never grumbles, and is completely complacent. He calls his wife “sweetheart.” He loves suckling pig with horseradish, all things sour, choral music, and the cool shade. The phrase vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas9 (nonsense of nonsenses, and all is nonsense) was coined with the phlegmatic man in mind. He only falls ill when he is called upon to serve as a juror. When he sees a portly woman he wheezes, begins fidgeting, and attempts to smile. He has a subscription to Niva, but is peeved that they do not color their pictures and have no funny articles. He considers writers extremely clever, but at the same time extremely dangerous. He laments that his children are not whipped at school, but is himself at times not averse to giving them a good hiding. He is happy in the civil service. In an orchestra he is the contrabass, bassoon, or trombone; in a theater the cashier, doorman, or prompter—and at times, pour manger, an actor. He ultimately falls victim to paralysis or dropsy.
The phlegmatic woman is a hefty, pop-eyed, flour-white German woman of means prone to tears. She calls to mind a sack of flour. She is born to become a mother-in-law, a condition toward which she strives.
The Melancholic Man. Gray-blue eyes, brimming with tears. There are deep lines on his forehead and on either side of his nose. His mouth is somewhat crooked, his teeth black. He inclines to hypochondria, forever complaining of a pain in the pit of his stomach, a stitch in his side, and weak digestion. His favorite pastime is to stand before a mirror eyeing his limp tongue. He believes his lungs are weak and that he is suffering from a nervous condition, and consequently drinks herbal potions instead of tea, and elixir of life instead of vodka. With sorrow and in a faltering voice, he informs those near and dear to him that laurel tinctures and valerian drops are not availing. He feels that it would not be amiss to take a purgative once a week. He long ago decided that doctors do not understand him. Faith healers and healeresses, quacks, drunken field medics, and sometimes midwives give him succor. He dons a heavy winter coat in September and only takes it off in May. He suspects rabies in every dog, and ever since a friend informed him that a cat is capable of suffocating a sleeping man, he sees in every feline an implacable enemy of mankind. He drew up his will long ago. He swears by God and the Holy Bible that he never touches alcohol, but from time to time will imbibe warm beer. He marries a destitute orphan. If he does have a mother-in-law, he idealizes her as the epitome of brilliance and wisdom, listening to her pontifications with rapture, his head tilted to the side. Kissing her plump, clammy hands, redolent of sour pickles, he considers to be the holiest of duties. He pursues an active correspondence with uncles, aunts, his godmother, and childhood friends. He doesn’t read newspapers: he used to read The Moscow Daily, but as he felt his stomach constricting, his heart racing, and his eyes glazing over, he gave it up. He secretly reads Auguste Debay and Jozan de Saint-André’s books on conjugal hygiene. When the plague descended on Vetlyansk he devoutly resolved to fast five times. He is beset by nightmares and fits of weeping. He is not particularly happy in the civil service, and never rises above the rank of a minor section chief. He likes singing the old folk song “Luchinushka.” In an orchestra, he is the flute or the violoncello. He sighs night and day, which is why I advise against sleeping in the same room with him. He foretells floods, earthquakes, wars, the moral decline of mankind, and his own death from some agonizing illness. He dies of heart disease, cures administered by faith healers, and often of hypochondria.
The melancholic woman is the most unbearable and fretful of creatures. As a wife, she drives her husband to desperation and suicide. The one good thing is that it is not difficult to get rid of her: give her some money and she will set off on a pilgrimage.
The Choleric-Melancholic Man. In his early years he is a sanguine youth, but the instant a black cat crosses his path or the devil clouts him on the head, he turns into a choleric-melancholic individual. I am speaking of my illustrious Moscow neighbor, the exalted editor of the Zritel magazine. Ninety-nine percent of our Slavophile nationalists are choleric-melancholics, as are all unacknowledged poets, pater patriae, Jupiters, unacknowledged Demosthenes, and cuckolded husbands. Choleric-melancholic men are all those who are weakest in body but strongest in voice.
* * *
8Latin: “cure like with like.” [Translator]
9“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” [Translator]
SALON DES VARIÉTÉS
“Cabbie! Are you asleep, dammit? Get me to the Salon des Variétés!”
“Um . . . ah . . . the saloon day very tea? That’ll be thirty kopecks, sir.”
Lit by lanterns: the entrance and a lone constable loitering outside. A ruble and twenty kopecks to get in and twenty kopecks to check your coat (the latter, however, is not mandatory). You barely put your foot inside the door when the potent stench of shoddy boudoirs and bathhouse changing rooms washes over you. The guests are slightly tipsy. Incidentally, I would discourage a visit to the salon by anyone who is—how shall I put it—not at least three, if not four, sheets to the wind. It is a fundamental requirement. If a guest arrives with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his bleary eye, it is a good sign: it is unlikely that he will die of boredom, and he might even get a small taste of bliss. Unlucky is the teetotaler who ventures into the Salon des Variétés. It is doubtful that he will take a shine to it, and when he gets home he will give his sons a good hiding so they will know better than to visit the salon when they grow up. Tipsy guests totter up the stairs, hand the doorman their ticket, enter the hall filled with portraits of the great, brace themselves, and plunge bravely into the hurly-burly, stumbling through all the rooms, from door to door, thirsting to catch a peek of something rare. They push and jostle as if looking for something. What a seething hodgepodge of faces, colors, and smells! Ladies—red, blue, green, black, variegated and pieba
ld, like three-kopeck woodblock prints. The same ladies were here last year and the year before—and you will see them here next year, too. Not a single décolleté, as they are in corsets and bloomers and . . . have no busts worth mentioning. And what strange and marvelous names: Blanche, Mimi, Fanny, Emma, Isabella. You will not find a single Matryonna, Mavra, or Pelageya.
The dust is terrible! Specks of powder and paint hang in the air in a haze of alcoholic fumes. You cannot breathe, and the urge to sneeze tickles your nose.
“What a rude man you are!”
“Me? Ah . . . hmm, well, permit me to express to you in prose that I am fully up-to-date on feminine ideas. Allow me to escort you.”
“How dare you, young man! You had better introduce yourself first, and wine and dine me a little!”
An officer hurries over, grabs the lady by the shoulders, turning her away from the young man so that she faces him. The young man is not pleased. He pauses, decides to take offense, grabs the lady by the shoulders, and turns her so she faces him again.
A big German with an oafish, inebriated face stumbles through the crowd. He emits a loud belch for all to hear. A pockmarked little man comes shuffling up behind him, clasps his hand, and shakes it.
“F-f-fool!” the German says.
“I wish to express my sincerest gratitude for your sincere belch,” the little man says.
“Um . . . ja . . . th-th-thank!”
By the entrance a crowd has gathered. Two young merchants are gesticulating furiously at each other in blind hatred. One merchant is red as a lobster, the other pale. Needless to say, they are both drunk as lords.
“How about . . . I punch you in the mug!”
“You ass!”
“No, You’re an ass yourself! You . . . philanthropist!”
“You rat! Why are you waving your arms around? Go on, punch me! Go on!”
“Gentlemen!” a woman’s voice rings out from the crowd. “How unseemly to use such language in front of ladies!”
“And the ladies can go to hell too! I don’t give a flying hoot for your ladies! I can feed and clothe a thousand of them! And . . . you, Katya, stay out of this! Why did he insult me when I didn’t do anything to him?”
A dandy sporting a gigantic cravat hurries over to the pale merchant and takes him by the hand.
“Mitya! Your papa is here!”
“He c-c-can’t be!”
“Upon my word, he is! He’s sitting at a table with Sonya—he almost saw me, the old devil! We have to get out of here!”
Mitya glares at his opponent one last time, shakes his fist at him, and retreats.
“Tsvirintelkin! Come here! Raissa’s looking for you!”
“I’m not interested in her, she looks like a weasel! I’ve found another one—Fräulein Luisa!”
“What? That tub of lard?”
“A tub of lard she might be, but she’s a lot of woman, and a triple helping, too! Try getting your arms around her!”
Fräulein Luisa is sitting at a table. She is big, fat, sluggish as a snail, and covered in sweat. Before her on the table are a bottle of beer and Tsvirintelkin’s hat. The outline of her corset bulges over the expanse of her gigantic back. She prudently hides her hands and legs; her hands are large, rough, and red. Only a year ago she was still living in Prussia, where she washed floors, made beer soup for the Herr pastor, and looked after the little Schmidts, Müllers, and Schultzes. Fate decided to disturb her peace: she fell in love with Fritz, and Fritz fell in love with her. But Fritz could not marry a poor woman. In his eyes he would have been a fool to marry a poor woman. Luisa vowed eternal love to Fritz, and left her beloved Vaterland for the cold steppes of Russia in order to earn herself a dowry. And so she goes to the Salon des Variétés every night. During the day, she makes little boxes and crochets tablecloths. Once she has got together the agreed-upon amount of money, she will return to Prussia and marry Fritz.
“Si vous n’avez rien à me dire . . .” comes echoing from the stage. There is a rumpus, applause for whoever happens to be performing. A feeble cancan is underway: in the front rows mouths are watering in delight. Look at the audience as the women onstage shout “Down with men!” Give the audience a lever, and it would turn the whole world upside down. There is roaring, shouting, howling.
“Sss! Sss! Sss!” a little officer in the front row hisses at a girl.
The audience rises against the officer in furious indignation, and the whole of Bolshaya Dimitrovka Street rattles with applause. The little officer gets up, and, his head high, leaves the hall with a haughty flourish, his self-respect intact.
The Hungarian orchestra launches into a thunderous melody. What fat louts these Hungarians are, and how badly they play! They are an embarrassment to their country.
The bar has been taken by storm. Behind the counter is Monsieur Kuznetsov in person, standing next to a lady with dark eyebrows. Monsieur Kuznetsov is pouring glasses of wine, and the lady is collecting the money.
“A g-g-glass of vodka! You hear me? V-v-vodka!”
“Grab a glass, Kolya! Bottoms up!”
A man with short-cropped hair stares dully at his glass, shrugs his shoulders, and avidly downs the vodka. “I shouldn’t, Ivan Ivanich, I have a heart condition.”
“Nonsense! Nothing will happen to your heart condition with a few drinks!”
The man with the heart condition downs another glass.
“Have another!”
“No, I’ve got a heart condition, and I’ve already had seven!”
“Nonsense!”
The young man downs another glass.
“Please, sir,” a girl with a sharp chin and rabbit eyes whines, “buy me dinner!”
The man resists.
“I’m hungry. Just a little portion of something.”
“What a nag you are! Waiter!”
The waiter brings a piece of meat. The girl eats. And how she eats! With her mouth, her eyes, her nose.
In a shooting booth bullets are whizzing. Two Tyrolean ladies are loading one rifle after another, and they are not at all bad-looking, either. An artist is standing next to them, drawing one of them on the cuff of his shirt.
“Thank you! Goodbye! Good luck to you!” the Tyrolean women shout as they leave.
As they leave the clock strikes two. The women onstage are still dancing. Noise, uproar, shouts, shrieks, whistling, a cancan. Oppressive heat and stuffiness. At the bar the drunks are getting drunker, and by three o’clock there is total mayhem.
In the meantime, in the private rooms . . .
Anyway, time to go! How wonderful it is to leave this place. If I were the owner of the Salon des Variétés, I would not charge customers at the entrance—but at the exit.
AN IDYLL—BUT ALAS!
“My uncle is such a wonderful man,” Grisha, Captain Nasechkin’s hard-up nephew and sole heir, would say to me. “I love him with all my heart! Why don’t you come meet him? It would make him so happy!”
Whenever Grisha spoke of his uncle his eyes filled with tears. And I will say to his credit that he was not ashamed of these tears and was quite prepared to cry in public. I accepted his invitation, and a week ago dropped by to see the old captain. When I entered the hall and peered into the drawing room, I witnessed a most touching scene. The wizened captain was sitting in a large armchair holding a cup of tea, and Grisha was kneeling next to him, tenderly stirring it. The pretty hand of Grisha’s fiancée was caressing the old man’s leathery neck, while she and Grisha squabbled as to who would be the first to shower the dear uncle with kisses.
“And now, sweet children of my heart, my sole heirs, you must kiss each other!” Captain Nasechkin spluttered with joy.
An enviable bond united the three. Even though I am a hard man, I must admit that my heart was gripped by joy as I gazed at them.
“Yes in
deed!” Captain Nasechkin was saying to them. “I think I can say I’ve had a good life! And may God grant a good life to everyone! How many fine fillets of sturgeon I have enjoyed, like the one I ate back in Skopin! Even today it makes my mouth water!”
“Oh, tell us all about it!” I heard Grisha’s fiancée plead.
“So there I was in the town of Skopin with all my thousands of rubles, and . . . er . . . I went straight to . . . er . . . Rikov . . . Yes, to Mr. Rikov. What a man! Good as gold! A gentleman! He received me like I was family . . . you’d have thought he wanted something from me . . . but no, like I was family! He served me coffee, and after the coffee, a little snack . . . and the table . . . the table was filled with bottles and food . . . and a big fat sturgeon . . . from one corner to the other . . . lobster . . . caviar. You’d have thought it was a restaurant!”
I entered into the drawing room; it happened to be the day on which news had just reached Moscow by wire that the Skopin Bank had collapsed.
Little Apples Page 3